The Penske Rental stopped at last, in the rest area on top of Donner Pass. The small lot was full, but the weary Trucker created his own parking spot along a sidewalk, which still allowed traffic to proceed out the exit. Ever parallel park an eighteen wheeler?
Weather is cold up here, so the Passenger added a turtleneck and socks to her ensemble. In May, the building's doors were closed and the building was heated. Now in October, doors were propped open, and the restrooms shared the 30 degree outdoor atmosphere.
We arrived after dark, and left before dawn, still managing seven hours of sleep for the Trucker. A busy busy day ahead, three deliveries and a reload, all with unforgiving deadlines. And the Penske is pre-programmed to limit speed to 72 mph, and be difficult to keep at a slow speed, and furthermore, die out when accelerating in traffic.
A quick stop for breakfast, as there is time. The Passenger declines, being on the edge of a migraine and feeling queasy. Taking the key, she heads back through the large, dark parking lot in search of the Penske. Now the green Kenworth is distinctive, easily located. A white Penske....what if there are others in this lot, and she attempts to unlock the wrong one? Heaven forbid, with someone else inside? Only one thing to do, circle the lot (a walk in early morning air feels good, even if the ambiance is lacking), and approach the row from behind. Find the familiar trailer, and the tractor attached should be safe. Got it.
Shortly a text from the Trucker. "You find it?" Yep, she did. And the bunk will be tidy when he returns.
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Through the hills toward Sacramento. Dry grasses, scrubby bushes clinging to the slopes. A few cattle grazing, seemingly on nothing here, areas scarred by fire there. Small developments huddled between the hills.
Day has broken. A bank of dusky clouds hang low overhead. The Passenger chooses music for the morning, vintage 2nd Chapter of Acts. An instrumental rendition of "O Sacred Head Now Wounded" sets the Trucker to thinking. Yes, it was, he remembered correctly. Paul Simon's "American Tune" uses nearly the same melody. We listened to both. Lyrics of one express hope and gratitude. The other, pain and unanswered questions.
Winding through the hills toward Sacramento, the Passenger thinks wailing violin background music would be appropriate. The fog from the bay drifts eastward, mingled with pollution raised from the city, to create smog. No definitive beginning, just wispy gray tendrils. Coiling, writhing, reaching toward us with claw-finger shaped extensions of mist, drawing us into the dimness.
At the top of the next hill, strong wind scrapes away smog to reveal clear sky above, and homes below. Then back down to the valley. Traffic thickens, six lanes each way, with frequent entrances and exits. Small cars dart back and forth, changing lanes, seemingly oblivious to the trucks bearing down on them. Helmeted and backpacked motorcyclists weave their bikes between all, roaring down the dotted lines that separate lanes of traffic.
Still on Route 80, a bridge over a bridge, over the roadway that is on solid ground. (The Trucker had offered to alter his route slightly to allow his Passenger to experience the Golden Gate Bridge, specifically the "sway" out in the center. She decided photos were quite sufficient.)
Traffic increases.
And increases again.
In Oakland, 9;30AM PST, bumper to bumper vehicles, now at speed, now almost a standstill. The Trucker wrangles steering wheel and gearshift, and grumbles. "Isn't it time you all were at work, and off my road?" Commercial airliners drop from the clouds earthward, aimed at runways far below them and to our right.
Three deliveries today. Berk Tek insulated copper wire to warehouses in Hayward and union City, California. Then flooring products, also to Union City. Backhaul will be pears, from Finley, California.
This is today. Barely begun, and already we are dreaming of the high desert, the endless level plains, the empty roads.
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